“You want me to go with you?” Joe asked, nodding toward the GMC.
“Yes, please.”
“How about I follow you in,” Joe said. “I need to pick my girls up at school this afternoon so I need a vehicle. We’ll be done by then, I’d guess.”
Ward looked at him. “We have to be.”
Joe stuffed his gloves into his back pocket and picked up his tools from the ground and handed them to Bud Jr. “I’ll ask your dad to send someone out here to pick you up.”
Bud’s face fell. “You’re just leaving me here?”
“Get some work done,” Joe said, gesturing toward the fence that went on for miles. “Come on, Maxine,” he called to his dog.
Bud Jr. turned away and folded his arms across his chest in a pout.
“Quite a hand,” Ward said sarcastically as Joe walked past him toward the Ford.
“Yup,” Joe said.
THE GOVERNOR’S PLANE was the only aircraft on the tarmac at the Saddlestring Regional Airport. Joe followed Chuck Ward to a small parking lot at the side of the General Aviation building.
Joe had heard the stories about the drinking contest and the shooting range. Rulon was an enigma, which seemed to be part of his charm. A one-time high-profile defense lawyer, Rulon became a federal prosecutor who had a 95 percent conviction rate. Since the election, Joe had read stories in the newspaper about Rulon rushing out of his residence in his pajamas and a Russian fur cap to help state troopers on the scene of a twelve-car pileup on I-80. Another recounted how he’d been elected chairman of the Western Governors’ Association because of his reputation for taking on Washington bureaucrats and getting his way, which included calling hotel security to have all federal agency personnel escorted from the room of their first meeting. Each new story about Rulon’s eccentricities seemed to make him more popular with voters, despite the fact that he was a Democrat in a state that was 70 percent Republican.
Governor Spencer Rulon sat behind a scarred table in the small conference room. Aerial photos of Twelve Sleep County adorned the walls, and a large picture window looked out over the runway. The table was covered with stacks of files from the governor’s briefcase, which was open on a chair near him.
He stood up as Ward and Joe entered the room and thrust out his hand.
“Joe Pickett, I’m glad Chuck found you.”
“Governor,” Joe said, removing his hat.
“Sit down, sit down,” Rulon said. “Chuck, you too.”
Governor Rulon was a big man in every regard, with a round face and a big gut, an unruly shock of silver- flecked brown hair, a quick sloppy smile, and darting eyes. He was a manic
Ward looked at his wristwatch. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to leave for Powell.”
“A speech for the Community College Commission,” the governor said to Joe before settling back in his chair. “They want more money—now that’s a shocker—so they’ll be willing to wait.”
Joe put his hat crown down on the table. He was suddenly nervous about why he’d been summoned and because there was no way to anticipate what Rulon might do or say. Joe had assumed on the drive into town that it had something to do with the circumstances of his dismissal, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was becoming clear to him by Ward’s manner that the chief of staff didn’t really like the purpose of the meeting, whatever it was.
“Everybody wants more money,” Rulon said to Joe. “Everybody has their hand out. Luckily, I’m able to feed the beast.”
Joe nodded in recognition of one of the governor’s most familiar catchphrases. In budget hearings, on the senate floor, at town meetings, Rulon was known for listening for a while, then standing up and shouting,
The governor turned his whole attention to Joe, and thrust his face across the table at him. “So you’re a cowboy, now, eh?”
Joe swallowed. “I work for my father-in-law, Bud Longbrake.”
“Bud’s a good man.” Rulon nodded.
“I’ve got my resume out in five states.”
Rulon shook his head. “Ain’t going to happen.”
Joe was sure the governor was right. Despite his qualifications, any call to his former boss, Randy Pope, asking for a job reference would be met with Pope’s distorted tales of Joe’s bad attitude, insubordination, and long record of destruction of government property. Only the last chage was true, Joe thought.
“Nothing wrong with being a cowboy,” Rulon said.
“Nope.”
“Hell, we put one on our license plates. Do you remember when we met?”
“Yes.”
“It was at that museum dedication last spring. I took you and your lovely wife for a little drive. How is she, by the way? Marybeth, right?”
“She’s doing fine,” Joe said, thinking,